


The Possibility of Rand

by fraufi666



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Authority Figures, BDSM, Crack, F/F, Female Homosexuality, I'm Going to Hell, Nudity, Romance, Sexual Content, Some really messed up kinks like individualism, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraufi666/pseuds/fraufi666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prime Minister Thatcher struggles to get along with anyone in cabinet and cannot see eye to eye with any of the ideas put forward. But a visit from a foreign philosopher offers her with more than just her like-minded ideas. Thatcher in turn yearns for something that she had never really thought about before…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Possibility of Rand

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is a historical AU. Although I have used historical figures and some references based from real events, (e.g. Thatcher’s time in power) this is entirely a work of fiction. All romantic encounters, events and insinuations are from my imagination. I mean no disrespect to any of the people depicted. I am also in no way politically biased.

"Excellent, I'll see you tomorrow."

After a single nod to her colleague, Margaret Thatcher walked away from Westminster. The cold London air did nothing to deter her from her path. She strolled to the car, hoping that she could get home as soon as possible. There was so much that she had to read in order to prepare for tomorrow. It frustrated her as Prime Minister there were too many areas that she had to focus on. But the people in her cabinet were so useless. It was no point in asking for any of them to help. She sighed, only realising now how cold it was in her skirt suit. 

The car sat in its usual spot. But the chauffeur was nowhere to be found. "Oh for heaven's sakes." She muttered to herself. He was meant to be there. She had given him a list of times where she would need to be driven home and yet he was probably off somewhere having a cup of tea or socialising. The Prime Minister knew that she would have to have a stern word with him once he got back. Maybe she would cut his pay. That would show him. 

A waft of cigarette smoke stopped her in her tracks. She frowned. Never had anyone smoked around that area before, and even so, she could not see anyone there. Gingerly, she followed where the source of the scent was coming from. In the dark sheen of the partially open car window, a cloud of smoke curled from a glowing red tip. 

Someone…some insolent fool, was smoking in her car. 

"Hey you there!" Thatcher shouted, grabbing hold of the car door and jerking it open. "This is a private car and you are not allowed to-"

She stopped short. The cigarette had belonged to a feminine hand of a woman who was sitting comfortably in the back seat. 

The woman gave a slight smile, her dark eyes peering inquisitively at the Prime Minister. The short hair and pale face looked oddly familiar, yet in her confusion and outrage Thatcher could not recognise who she could be. 

"So you were saying?" The woman asked in a thick Russian accent. 

Thatcher glared at her, the accent distracting her only momentarily, "Now look here... If you are here for the Woman's Lib movement, I've told the papers exactly what I felt about it. Now get out of my car before I call the police!" 

"Or what?" The Russian asked, smiling softly as she brought the cigarette back to her lips. 

The stubborn, rebellious nature of the foreigner was enough to make Thatcher lose her temper. How dare this woman invade her car and then try to play guessing games? She needed to get to her work as soon as possible and this woman was wasting her time. No. She was not going to let her get away so easily. 

"...Or you will be in serious trouble!" Thatcher finished, "It's a crime to be in a politician's car and the authorities won't let you! Now get out of my car before I call the police!" she screeched. 

The Russian leaned back, resting the side of her face on her free hand as she inspected the Englishwoman. "But…my dear. The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me."* She looked so smug, lounging in the back seat and Thatcher was getting more irritated. Hadn't this woman learnt rules before? The fact that she called her "dear" puzzled her. She wanted to shout back that she had no right to call her such endearments, and yet at the same time, she felt slightly embarrassed. 

"There is no need to be alarmed." The Russian responded smoothly, sitting up in the car. "But you still don't know who I am, Margaret?" 

The politician frowned. She had never met this visitor in her life, and yet she knew her name. Quickly, she dismissed the thought. Anyone who had read the paper would know who she is. "That is _Prime Minister_ to you." Thatcher grumbled. "Now if you don't get out of my car right now, I will drag you out of here myself!" 

Yet as she looked at the pale arms that rested on the upholstery, she felt slightly hesitant. Why did it seem so much easier to threaten a man than a woman? She had no problem in speaking roughly to men much older than her, yet this dark-haired stranger in the car made her feel…feel what? Behind her back, her fists clenched. No, she did not want to feel this way. She was the Iron Lady of the Western world. Not to mention the fact that she was the most powerful person of the United Kingdom. But as she felt the dark eyes staring at her patiently, waiting for her to go on she realised that she felt weak under her presence. 

Perhaps being upfront was much too difficult. This woman had to be dealt with another way. 

"Well? If you aren't here for the Woman's Lib movement, what _are_ you here for?" Thatcher demanded, hoping that the stranger would tell her her intentions and get this nonsense over with. 

"Because…" The stranger took another drag of the cigarette, purposely stalling. "...Because you are beautiful." 

Her cheeks burned as she heard those words. It was surreal. A stranger who was sitting in her car and smoking had complimented her and yet she did not take the compliment as proudly as she did when a man said those words. Somehow, it felt wrong. She had no idea who this person was…this _woman_. And yet she had felt so weak, so hopeless around her. Thatcher could not hate anyone as much as she hated her. Who was she to bring down the Iron Lady?

To her surprise, the brunette took one look at her watch. Climbing out of the car, she stepped on the cigarette with her heel. "Goodbye Margaret." 

"Wait…" Thatcher began, "What is your name?" But the woman had walked down the path, completely out of earshot. Suddenly, she heard someone panting behind her. She spun around, noticing the chauffeur had just returned. 

"I am terribly sorry I'm late, Prime Minister." He puffed, "There was a queue." 

"Who was that?" Thatcher demanded, ignoring his excuse. She knew that it was not legitimate anyway. Perhaps she was a girl he had brought from the bar. Drunk perhaps. And maybe trying to marry a citizen to stay in Britain. The chauffeur looked puzzled. 

"Well?! Who is she?!"

"Who is _who_?!" The chauffeur asked stupidly, "What are you talking about? I didn't see anyone here." 

"That's because she's left, you fool! The slender woman with the dark hair…has a foreign accent. If she was one of the girls you brought back from the dingy parts of town, I will take that out of your pay!" 

Seeing how furious the politician looked, he decided not to argue with her. "I…I'm sorry. I didn't lock the car." He sighed, "But please don't take it out of my pay! I need it to feed the family!" 

But she didn't care. She ignored his protests as she sat down, rolling up the window. Yet she try as she might, she could not get away from the smell of cigarette ash. Once she was feeling less tired, she was going to tell the chauffeur to clean the mess that his girlfriend left behind. If it _was_ his girlfriend. Quite frankly, she didn't want to know. She had a country she had to run. 

As she stretched out her legs, her foot bumped against something hard and rectangular. She reached down, picking up what seemed to be a book that was left under the seat. The cover looked familiar: _The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand_. Thatcher quickly flicked to the inner dust cover. A picture of a woman with a half smile gazed back with her with dark eyes. 

_Ayn Rand_. She knew who she was now. The philosopher who was very popular in the United States. She was sure that President Carter might know of her, although he wouldn't have been a very big fan. But what was she doing in London out of all places? Thatcher inspected the cover. Perhaps she had left the book behind to convince her to read her ideas. But why? 

She was about to ask the chauffeur about the book when he had stopped in front of 10 Downing Street. Turning back to the picture of Ayn, she suddenly felt the same uncomfortable, weak feeling return. 

_Because you are beautiful_

Her head was spinning at the memory. The book felt like a burden in her hands. She decided against asking about it. Even holding it felt like a dirty secret, like a scent of cigarette ash that wouldn't go away. Once she had wordlessly left the car she clutched the book as she strolled towards a rubbish bin outside. She will get rid of this wretched woman's book and it will all be over. She will never have to bother her again. 

Standing in front of the bin, she held the book out before the dirty depths, the mouth ready to devour it. Yet suddenly, she thought of the dark eyes that peered at her with so much curiosity. _What did she really want from me?_ Thatcher wondered. But as her hand began to feel sore under the heavy weight of the volume, she realised that she could not simply let go of the book. This woman seemed to know so much about her, and yet she knew only her name. No. She was not going to let this stranger have such a major advantage over her. 

Surreptitiously, she brought the book into the house with her. 

 

"Good evening Maggie! How was your day?" Denis called out cheerfully from the lounge. Thatcher quickly hid the book under her coat. 

"Oh, it was just the usual. These hopeless men have no idea how to run government...I have to do it all by myself." She whined, taking off her coat but making sure that the book was wrapped up inside it out of sight. "I do hope all this chaos starts to make sense. People in government can be so disorganised." 

Denis gave a wide grin before getting up from his chair to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Well they're very lucky to have someone like you in there to help them." He responded kindly, "You are just what Britain needs."

Thatcher smiled at his words, brimming with pride. She felt more like her old self. "Thank you Denis. Now I really have to get to work. I will speak to you later." 

He nodded understandably before turning back to the TV. _Bless him._ Thatcher thought, pleased that her husband was not in a curious mood. 

With haste, she bounded up the stairs to her office and sat down to work for hours. She had kept the dreaded novel in a drawer, trying to distract herself from the curiosity of the woman from today. As the sun began to set and later as the stars came out and Denis had already gone to bed, Thatcher finally completed all the day's reading. With a trembling hand, she gingerly took the book out of the drawer and started to read a few chapters of it. Not much had occurred and the beginning was all too slow but she was curious to see what had happened next. Yet suddenly all the tiredness of today had caught up with her and she had fallen into a deep slumber. 

A cloud of cigarette smoke shrouded around her. Thatcher spun around to see the Russian standing there with a cigarette in her hand, smiling mysteriously as she did in the photo. 

"What do you want?" Thatcher asked, glaring at the intruder. 

"It doesn't matter what I want. What do _you_ want, Margaret?" Rand responded, sitting down on her desk. She crossed her legs comfortably, taking another drag of the cigarette. Upon noticing the pale legs against the dark mahogany of the desk, she reluctantly realised that they were nicely shaped. 

"I want you out of here!" Thatcher shouted, "Leave at once!!"

Rand smiled, and it seemed as if she had moved one of the legs slightly closer to the Prime Minister as if in a tease. Somehow, she knew. "Is that what you really want, Margaret? Or is it just because what you do want feels immoral?" She spotted _The Fountainhead_  open near Thatcher's hands. A twinkle of approval sparked briefly in the dark eyes. It was possible that she could have imagined it, but the other woman had already picked it up and inspected it. 

"I guess, you will soon find out what you really want once you read more." Rand responded, standing up abruptly. A hand touched the politician's shoulder. Thatcher flinched, unused to the touch. 

Both hands began to run against her shoulders. She gasped, unable to comprehend what was happening to her. Lips touched her cheek lightly. She wanted to yell at the Russian to leave her alone, but her words were caught in her throat. Usually she was so sure of what she wanted, what she had said. But now she was more confused than ever before. Heart pounding, she was frozen in her spot, unable to do anything. 

_No. I will not let her intimidate me._ Thatcher thought in determination. At that thought, her pulse rate slowed and she was able to fight back. 

"Get away from me!" 

Opening her eyes, she saw a puzzled Denis looking back at her. "It's okay, Maggie. It's only me!" He hushed her, taking her face into his hands. She relaxed immediately, inwardly cursing herself for getting so worked up over a dream. Now that she thought of it, it was far too illogical for the philosopher to be in the house. The fact that she was letting her emotions get the better of her own rational thinking was infuriating. She was a _woman_ , for goodness' sakes, not even a politician of any important standing and yet she couldn't even think straight in her presence. 

Presence? She had almost laughed out loud at the thought. What presence? Rand wasn't even in the room. It was nothing more than a figment of her imagination, an illusion. But why did it feel so real? 

Even though she had relaxed in Denis's familiar embrace, she could not help but feel a slight hint of disappointment. When would she possibly see this woman again?

Because, she was not even done with her yet. 

 

Later that evening, Thatcher tossed and turned as Denis slept comfortably. Despite her eyes growing heavier by the second, her mind was still highly alert. It was an impossible task to sleep. The temptation to climb out of bed and head into the office to read, to do _anything_ to get her mind off that wretched woman was overwhelming. Yet upon recalling the book on the table, still open and only partially read, she rolled over and tried to sleep. 

Against her bare shoulder, what felt like a few legs were crawling over here. She jolted, thinking it was a spider and reached out instinctively for the lamp. Yet as she did so, a hand grabbed against her wrist. The crawling persisted, creeping up towards her face. Her heart was racing as she felt herself locked in an unfamiliar bond. Gently, the legs…no, the fingers, stroked against her cheek. She knew it was wrong, but she could not stop herself from panting against the touch, begging for the fingers to get more adventurous. They swept towards her lips, tracing against them lightly as she gasped. 

"L-Let me go…" She moaned breathlessly.

"Very well." Rand's voice responded, pulling away from her. But then she was frightened. Never had she felt so uncertain. It was as if something was missing from her, something crucial. Yet she could not let herself admit what it was. The other woman had sat down on a stool, crossing her legs and lighting another cigarette. 

Fear was quickly replaced by a burning hatred as she glared at the intruder who was smoking so calmly in her private space. "No." She said firmly, "Stop it! Stop it at once!" 

"Stop what, Margaret?" Rand asked innocently, taking another drag of the cigarette and blowing mists of smoke that made the Prime Minister's eyes water. The surroundings were becoming hazier with every smoke-filled breath. All she could see was the philosopher watching her, "Stop smoking? Or…stop being here?" The way the Russian asked so many questions was trying her patience. 

The weak feeling returned. But it was not only just a slight increase in heart rate. A curious fluttering of her stomach was coming into place. Yet it was not like the anxious butterflies that she had felt in her stomach before an important speech. It was a flutter that would threaten to challenge everything she had thought of herself…and the woman sitting before her. 

"You know what…" Thatcher muttered, trying to keep her voice down so not to wake up Denis, "You've broken into my house…you've disturbed me and you're smoking like a chimney everywhere! Wait until the police hear about this!" 

But the dark eyes did not look satisfied at all at the answer that was given. There was more to Thatcher's words and she knew it. Slowly, she got up from her seat and strode over to the politician. Even though she had kept her voice level and her gaze firm, there was no way she could hide the way her hand trembled as it clenched onto the sheets, as if for protection. 

"You're shaking." Rand whispered. The pale hand rested over the shaking, clenched one and Thatcher could feel all self control shatter at that very moment. There was no holding back as she looked up into the woman's eyes directly, no way to stop herself from breathing heavily and no way to…

She was climbing onto the bed. A leg draped on each side of the lying politician's body. At first, Thatcher wanted to yell at her for crushing her, yet it surprised her how light she was. 

"Ms…Ms Rand…" Thatcher choked, but the woman placed a finger to her lips, hushing her from stating another word. She moved closer to her, allowing herself to give in to the mist that shrouded her. Closing her eyes, Rand's mouth was on hers. She melted at the soft lips and the ash breath that were now on her clumsy lips, her mouth…her tongue. How she loathed the taste of cigarettes…and yet, how much she craved for more, if it would allow her to be closer to her. 

Once their lips had separated, Thatcher immediately pulled off her nightgown over her head, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. She tossed it aside as if it meant nothing, and then grabbed the Russian's shoulders, pulling her closer to her. 

Even though she had been quiet and much calmer than the Englishwoman, Rand was breathing heavily. She was starting to unbutton her dress, letting it fall from her shoulders and around her slender frame like a sea of ink. 

"That's a good girl." Thatcher murmured approvingly, astonished at the philosopher's uncharacteristic obedience. 

"No…" Rand protested, her voice heavy with lust. With surprising strength, she pushed her onto the bed so that the powerful woman was lying directly on her back, "Don't call me a good girl. I am anything but a saint…call me bitch. Call me a whore. But don't ever, _ever_ compare me to a saint."* 

The tone in Rand's voice was enough to stir a guilty, unwanted pleasure in places unspoken. Thatcher tried to ignore it. "I do not approve of such vulgar language. At least, let me call you by your _real_ name." She recalled the author's section of the book, " _Alissa_ …" 

Rand cringed at the voice, the sweet, honeyed tone by a woman that was able to influence others. She had never heard that name in so many years, and spoken by a foreigner shocked and embarrassed her. It was almost motherly. Condescending. And yet, so arousing. 

"No…no…" Rand refused, shaking her head. If the lights were on, Thatcher would see the bright red flush against the Russian's cheeks, "Don't call me that anymore. I left that name long ago." 

But Thatcher was more intrigued by the sudden show of weakness. Even pinned down, she was anything but defenceless, "Oh? Does that make you feel uncomfortable?" She smirked, "But Alissa is _such_ a beautiful name." The Prime Minister ran a hand through the dark locks, smiling mischievously. "Alissa…" The hand in her hair tugged with an iron grasp. 

Suddenly, Rand gave one yelp of delight before grabbing hold of the politician and pinning her down, planting several kisses on her face and body. Thatcher squirmed, knowing that it was all completely wrong, but not wanting to pull away. 

"Why don't you…take this off?" Rand asked teasingly, tugging at the straps of her bra. 

"Never." Thatcher responded back defiantly, "Not until you undress first. I am not giving into a communist like you." 

The Russian roared with laughter, "A communist? Oh…my dear Prime Minister…is that what you really think of me?" She grinned devilishly, slipping her fingers under the straps. "Well can a communist do _this_?!"

At that word, she undid Thatcher's bra, fondling her breasts. Thatcher tried to hold back any sounds that might indicate any sign of weakness. No. She could not surrender now. 

"S-stop…" Thatcher moaned softly between her teeth. 

"Never." Rand retorted, mimicking the woman's British accent. With a single, swift gesture, she pulled off Thatcher's panties, throwing them into the floor. The foreign hands encircled her thighs, before they traced deeper into unspoken places. 

Thatcher felt herself perspire as she was touched, forcing herself to not cry out or give in. "Good god.." She muttered as she felt the woman's hair brush against her thighs. "What are you doing down there?! You'd better not…"

But she could not finish her sentence. She shut her eyes, forcing away the pleasure. But the more Rand teased, the harder it got. Just when she could not bear it anymore, she came with a yelp that was much louder than she had expected. 

 

"Margaret? Whatever is the matter?" 

Thatcher opened her eyes to see Denis looking at her with concern. It was still dark, but somehow the room seemed different. For one, her clothes were strewn all over the floor. She also realised, with disappointment that Rand was no longer in the room. Of course…

"I…I had a nightmare." Thatcher lied, covering herself with a blanket modestly. Quickly, she retrieved her clothes, putting them back on and climbing in beside her husband.

With some hesitation, he began to question her, "What did you dream about?" 

"Denis. I have a very important meeting tomorrow. I would prefer to not be interrogated over such nonsense. Goodnight." She turned away from him, closing her eyes. Guiltily, she felt a shameful stickiness between her thighs and could almost taste the abhorrent ash in her mouth once more.

_Am I going mad?!_ She wondered in worry, and with some difficulty, managed to go back to sleep. 

 

For the next few weeks, Thatcher had carried on with business as always, delivering her speeches without trouble and crushing every opposing argument in every debate. With her determination and seriousness to get on with the job, it seemed as if she had long forgotten about the philosopher. 

Yet every night, she had taken out _The Fountainhead_ from the drawer, reading it and learning exactly what the Russian had been thinking of. Occasionally she made notes on a page, making sure to tell her colleagues, finding herself become more attuned to the woman's ideas. 

As soon as she reached the more intimate parts of the book, she could not stop herself from sighing sadly. What she had experienced was nothing more than a dream…a hallucination. Yet why did it feel so real? Where was she now when she needed her? Thatcher turned a page, unable to free herself from the image of the slender, pale legs against the upholstery. She slammed the book shut in irritation.

"Damn you!" She shouted, "I know you're in here! You've caused enough trouble already." 

But there was only silence. 

She laughed to herself. Why was she shouting to someone who was not even present? Shaking her head, she went back to her work. But with her mind, now focused on her, it was impossible. Turning back to the papers, she noticed a long stocking stretched across them, as if an ugly stain threatening to destroy her leadership.

Embarrassingly, she picked up the stocking gingerly and walked out of the office. Another stocking lay on the floor. She picked that up too, noticing a pile of clothing that continued towards her bedroom. With horror, she came across a dress and then a bra. Very soon, it was only a lacy black pair of panties that lay dangling from the lamp of her bedside table. 

She was lying in the bed, resting her head against a hand as if posing for a picture. To Thatcher's faint horror, the red lipstick might have been all she was wearing, save the blanket.  "Oh, hello Margaret." She said casually. 

"Of all the nerve." Thatcher choked, trying to keep her voice level. Yet she was too flustered to hide her feelings. "Get out of my bed." She demanded, "I'm married. This is absurd!" 

Rand smiled sweetly, lifting up the blanket slightly to reveal her legs. "You didn't think it was absurd last time. Besides…" she eyed at the panties hanging on the lamp, "I haven't got any clothes on." 

"No! Don't get up then! Stay there!" Thatcher shouted, blushing furiously. The top part of the blanket had slid down slightly from her shoulders revealing some cleavage. She tried to avert her eyes at this point, but it was too late. The dark eyes were watching her expectantly, seeing that she had already noticed. 

"I…I was wrong." Thatcher muttered nervously, "You're not a communist…but this…this is wrong." She could not figure out why it had become so hot all of a sudden. 

"Remove your jacket..." Rand ordered, "It's ridiculous that you're dressed so stiffly despite being so uncomfortable." She chuckled, "Oh you British are way too serious compared to the Americans…" 

"No!" Thatcher shouted, "I can see what you're trying to do here. And I will not stand for it!" 

"Do you want me to remove it for you then?" Rand offered.

"Yes! No! I…I don't know…" Thatcher found herself shouting, she felt herself sway as if she had a fever. Why did it feel so hot? Pale, cool hands assisted her and she felt immediately grateful to be freed from the responsibility. She found herself looking at the Russian, the blanket slipping very slowly from her slender body. She turned away, immediately feeling guilt for the way she was beginning to feel at the sight. 

"I can go to hell for this!" Thatcher protested, "Don't you fear that? We are committing a sin!" 

A cheerful, girlish laugh answered her. "Oh, you…" Rand sighed, taking Thatcher by the hand. In her underwear she was feeling far too exposed and quickly climbed into the bed so she could cover herself well with the blanket, as if to preserve whatever dignity she had left. "You really think there is a god? There is no such thing as God. Religion is used to make us into slaves. Objectively, we are individuals, we don't need anyone controlling us…" 

Thatcher shuffled awkwardly under the blankets. Even though she had wanted so badly to protest against anything the brunette was saying, she could not help but to agree, as if the woman too, was becoming her master. She quickly pushed the thought out of her mind. "You…you may be correct." Thatcher responded firmly, "But this doesn't make sense." It was a lie. It was so rare that someone was telling her something that she had agreed with so much, but it couldn’t be…it just wasn’t possible.

She could feel a hand slipping around her shoulders, holding onto her gently and softened. Something about the way the Russian's hands took her made her feel safe, comfortable somehow. "I…what I feel about you…how we feel about each other…we can't do this! Society will _condemn_ us!"

"Rubbish!" Rand shouted suddenly, her nails digging into the skin. Thatcher yelped slightly at the pain. She leaned closer to the Prime Minister, "We are individuals…society doesn't control us."

"…Because there is no such thing as society!*" Thatcher realised, her eyes widening. The thought, coupled with the painful sensation was arousing,  "Oh…of course!" 

"That's the way..." Rand smirked, kissing her softly on the cheek, "You are a smart woman. I completely underestimated you…" Reaching up, she began to unclasp the other woman's bra, but Thatcher took hold of each of her wrists, her heart beating rapidly as she stared into the dark eyes before her. She was gaining more confidence by the minute and there was a small smile on her lips. 

"Let me..." She uttered softly. To Rand's delight, the politician undid the bra and then, with some hesitation, removed her panties. Only the blanket would preserve her dignity now. The soft sheets against her naked skin felt so irresistible. She could probably lie this way forever if it were not for the duties that propelled her to run the nation. The Russian shuffled closer so that she could feel her body pressing against her. Embarrassingly, she pulled away, trying not to imagine the other woman's form that was in such close proximity to her. 

Yet as if she had heard her guilty thoughts, a hand took hers and ran it over the body. She blushed as her fingertips took in every curve and detail. 

"Lower.." Rand pleaded as Thatcher traced her hand slowly from her chest to her belly. She was breathing heavily as the Prime Minister continued. Once she had finally reached the destination, she fondled her, causing the breathing to grow louder. 

"You enjoy that do you…Alissa?" Thatcher teased, leaning down to kiss her on the lips and then chest. The other trembled as she did so, enjoying the intimate nature of the way she had said that. It felt so wrong, so immoral and yet Thatcher was using the name so calmly and casually that it was almost a sinful act in itself. 

Rand tried to hold back the sighs, but the Prime Minister was oddly skilful with her fingers. "Margaret…" Rand moaned, "Oh Margaret..."

"Prime Minister to you." Thatcher said stiffly, continuing to prod her. She was blushing at how wet the other woman was getting but at the same time there was a sense of pride. She never realised that she could be capable of something like this and now that Rand was in her most vulnerable state, it was the perfect opportunity to get answers.

"You…you called me beautiful. But why? Why did you even come here at all?" 

Rand blinked in response, taken aback by the pleasure that she took a little longer to process the question. "Why…why does that even matter?"

Thatcher paused her hand. "Tell me…or I'll never give you the pleasure you deserve." 

The Russian glared at her, clearly frustrated at being robbed the pleasure. "Oh Margaret…can't we just continue this? Please, forget about it." 

"Tell me, or else!" Thatcher's voice was defiant. 

"Or else what? You'll tie me down?" She was smiling, "I dare you...in fact, I _encourage_ you." Thatcher felt a leg brush against hers, causing her to feel bashful all over again and aware of her nakedness. 

"Very well then." Thatcher decided. She got up, modesty putting a dressing gown on to search for something suitable. She looked at the alarm clock on the corner, hoping desperately that Denis would not come home at this very minute. Opening up a drawer, she found a few of Denis' ties. She felt a pang of guilt as she realised a possible solution. 

_Please forgive me for what I am about to do…._

Taking out the ties, she moved quickly over to the bed, taking hold of the pale arms that she had once been so hesitant to lay a finger on and tying each to a bedpost. Rand's obedience was startling to her. The Russian did not even blink as she secured her in place. She was enjoying it perhaps…a little too much. 

"Now. Tell me!" Thatcher shouted, climbing onto the bed so that she was on top of Rand's lying figure. "Why?! Why did you follow me? What do you really want?!"

"Fine." Rand hissed back, although the smile hadn't left. Her dark eyes were shining both in triumph and in excitement, "I never in my life expected a _woman_ to lead a country." She chuckled maliciously, "But…oh, I heard about you. I heard about the Iron Lady of the Western World. So I had to see you myself. And of course I found it disgusting. It was disgusting to see the forces of nature go against one another while I was gone, but…but I found that I myself was not pure… _you_ did this to me. _You_ reduced me to this. It is the most irrational thing that could ever happen. But god…I love it. I want it. I want you so badly. This is most objectively correct than anything I have ever thought of." 

"Disgusting?" Thatcher asked sweetly, "I wasn't like this myself either. I am disgusted that I am doing this with you, a woman. A foreigner of all things." She let the dressing gown slip from her, giving her rough kisses on the face and neck, "But I want you oh so much. Damn what society wants. We are individuals." She kissed her fiercely on the mouth, the time getting more adventurous with her tongue. Rand was trembling, gasping in pleasure as she did so. "…Da." She moaned, instinctively slipping back to her native tongue, "Da." 

Even though Thatcher did know a few words in Russian from going abroad, she pretended like she could not understand the woman's desperate pleas. She ignored them, yet a hint of a smile gave it away.

"Bol'she!" Rand cried.

"No no no." Thatcher chuckled, "Not giving you more until you say 'please'." 

Rand turned into a deeper scarlet, completely embarrassed that this Englishwoman knew exactly what she was saying, "P-please… Prime Minister." She choked. 

"That's the way…" Thatcher responded. Much to Rand's relief, she traced her hand lower against the perspiring, pale body. Yet she deliberately decided to stall, glimpsing back at the brunette who was impatient with lust. Then, she began to give rough kisses in the places her hand once was. Rand shook slightly in the bind, gasping. The crossed legs that used to tease her were now open and under her control. She traced her lips against them, adoring the smoothness and the sighs that emanated before her. 

Suddenly, her lips were exploring her inner thighs. Rand was getting more excited, her body bracing for anticipation. Then, as she had kissed her only moments before, she had repeated the process in unspeakable areas. 

"YES." The philosopher cried, her arms wriggling under the bind. But Thatcher did not stop this time. Her tongue continued, slowly gathering speed. Rand had closed her eyes, moaning louder and louder. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the body of a powerful woman above her, giving her exactly what she had wanted and proving her past self wrong every second. This was more than anything she had ever dreamed. Finally, she gave a yelp as she came, trembling with so much pleasure. 

Thatcher untied her, finally allowing the other to wrap her arms around her sweating body. Rand kissed her cheeks and then gave a far more passionate one on the mouth, not even caring that her own taste was still on Thatcher's lips. In the heat of the moment, a tooth unintentionally dug into one of them, causing Thatcher to cry out loud. A small bead of blood started to emerge, but Rand was quick to lick it away, even partially sucking at it. The Prime Minister then lay back as the other woman reciprocated, yet clinging onto the sheets, panting at the roughness of her actions. 

"Don't worry, Prime Minister…I'll be gentle." Rand whispered, as if reading her mind. Thatcher watched her under her lashes as she explored her body. Red lipstick was smudged, and she had looked less like a lady. But somehow, Thatcher enjoyed seeing her that way. Suddenly, her mouth was back where it was the other night, their first night together. 

"Alissa…" Thatcher moaned, unable to get herself to say anything else intelligible. 

"Margaret…" Rand responded huskily, knowing that the Prime Minister no longer cared for formalities. She continued, getting aroused again by the other woman's excitement. Even though she had tried so hard to hide her pleasure, she could not hold back her sighs, her body shaking even more than the way the other had. Rand then got faster and faster, until finally Thatcher could not take it anymore. With a final loud moan, she reached her climax and the two came together once more. Never, had she experienced so much rough pleasure and felt more at peace with it than anything else. It was almost too good to be true. 

_Yes..too good to be true._

Thatcher woke up, still in Rand's arms. But she could not sleep. Disentangling herself from her embrace, she went over to retrieve the copy of _The Fountainhead_ , turning back to the section about the author. Her heart was racing as her mind began to flash back to certain events. She remembered the chauffeur's confusion as clear as day.

_"Who is who?! What are you talking about? I didn't see anyone here."_

Then, she thought of their first night together, right after she had woken up. 

_"I…I had a nightmare."_

_Too good to be true._

"It can't be…" Thatcher whispered in disbelief, looking at the dates that were on the page. It was just as she had feared. But how she wished that it was not so.

_(February 2, 1905-March 6, 1982)_

She looked at the diary that lay wide open on the table on its current date: April 21, 1982.

The sound of footsteps caused her too look up. Rand was standing before her, a blanket wrapped around her body. The pale skin almost blended into the sheet. Her eyes were wide and knowing.

"But how…how could I still see you?" Thatcher asked in alarm. 

Yet Rand took her hand gently causing her to drop the diary. She was smiling softly, as if reassuring her. 

"What difference does it make?" She asked quizzically. "As long as you enjoy it, it is moral." Thatcher noticed that even though her short hair was uncharacteristically messy, she still looked beautiful. 

"But…but you're dead." Thatcher protested.

"But you're Prime Minister." Rand retorted, smiling wider. Thatcher relaxed slightly at this. "I never thought it was possible before." She continued, "But you have done it. You truly are, the ideal woman." 

Thatcher looked down modestly.  Secretly, she had never felt so proud. It was an honor to receive such a compliment and she could feel her heart twist and yearn for more of the woman’s words. She knew that she could learn more from her, and she knew that Rand would be happy to show her the way, the way that would give the party a stronger ideology...something like the rest of the cabinet could get behind. It was so selfish of her though, to retrieve such things for her own use from her. But Rand was the last person to scold selfishness.

"I mean it." Rand insisted, putting a hand on the woman's face. "A free society…that is exactly what the Western World needs to hear more about. I know you can spread this message." 

Yet suddenly Thatcher did not care for politics. Not right now anyway. 

"H-how am I going to see you again?" Thatcher asked in worry, frightened that in any second the woman would disappear from her as quickly as smoke. 

Rand responded with a kiss before giving her the answer that she needed.

"You do not need to worry. You are doing that right now, all by yourself. I will always be with you, so long as you keep _The Fountainhead_. Every time you read it, I will be there, within the pages…whenever you need me." 

It was hard to believe that not long ago Thatcher had considered throwing the book out. But at this rate, she was not going to ever let it go. She was going to keep it in her drawer as a deep, dark secret, just like the nights that she had spent with her and no doubt, would continue to spend with her.

"Come…" Rand beckoned, taking her by the hand. "There is still a lot we need to do. With my mind and yours, we can make the world better.”

Thatcher grinned darkly, squeezing the hand that held hers. The spark in the dark eyes was back, and Rand loved every word coming out of her mouth. “There is nothing I would rather do. We will put the left exactly in their place.”

...And the two individuals ventured back into the darkness.

  
*  
  


"A free society is exactly what Britain needs, not whatever the left are trying to put forward." Thatcher declared confidently. "And that is what the Conservative Party will work towards." 

Cheers and jeers answered her as she sat back down in her seat. She waited with a smug smile to see how the Opposition would respond. Her opponent was already spluttering before he could make a sufficient comeback. 

A week later and government was going smoothly. With the ideas that Rand had told her, she was able to convince a great many people in her cabinet and even people in her backbench were reading her works. But she had never once revealed the woman’s name. It was to be a secret whilst she paid homage to her.

Just then, she could smell a familiar, but slightly unpleasant aroma. An aroma made up of cigarette ash. 

She turned around to see Ayn Rand standing to the far right, completely inconspicuous from the rest of the members of Parliament. 

The woman removed the cigarette from her mouth exhaled a cloud of smoke and smiled back at her with so much pride. She was a successful woman in power, someone that would carry on an ideology that seemed to have been dying when Rand was. Yet she was not worried, neither of them was.   
  


Because anything was indeed possible. 

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translation key (apologies for any inaccuracies, Russian is not my native language):
> 
> Da: Yes
> 
> Bol'she: More
> 
>  
> 
> *Footnotes for historical explanations: 
> 
> “The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me”: This is a quote taken directly from one of Ayn Rand’s most successful works, The Fountainhead. It is also one of her most well known quotes, which I feel sums up her character rather well (especially in this depiction of the fic). It was also said that Rand herself was inspired by her own characters, and in this fic in particular I based her loosely of Howard Roark. 
> 
> “But don't ever, ever compare me to a saint”: This was partially inspired by another quote from The Fountainhead. The quote is as follows: “You're much worse than a bitch. You're a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable.”
> 
> “Because there is no such thing as society”: This was inspired by a controversial quote that Thatcher once said: “There is no such thing as society: there are individual men and women, and there are families.” It was her view on individualism, which I had found uncannily similar to Ayn Rand, which had in turn inspired me to write this story. Yet whether or not she was directly inspired by Rand, is still debatable.


End file.
